


What Goes Around

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:00:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite everything Bond does, Silva isn't dead. He intends to change that fact, until he looks Silva in the eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So yes this is the beginning~ It might be a bit dry at the start, but it gets better. Promise! It's pretty short (I think, not too familiar with the usual length of stuff posted here) but only because I didn't know how long I should go, lol. Thanks for reading :)

The hunting knife left Bond’s hand, spinning until it hit its target square in the back. Silva yelled and turned around, and when he saw it was Bond, bared his teeth and snarled. He staggered forward and fell to his knees, glaring at Bond with contempt.

“Last rat standing.” Bond said with a hint of a smirk. Silva collapsed face down.

Bond felt a twinge in his chest. Perhaps he was getting soft in his old age. Silva wasn’t like the others; he was not out to destroy the world. He was out to get revenge. Who could blame him in the end? 

He was still a cold-hearted bastard, though.

Bond raised his eyes to M, who was, thankfully, not dead. “007,” she said, “what took you so long?”

“Oh, I got into some deep water.” The smirk was definitely there this time, but it disappeared as M gasped and fell.

Bond rushed to her side and caught her before she fell. He stared down at her in horror. She’d been shot; he could see her life ebbing away.

“I suppose it’s… too late to make a run for it…” she murmured weakly. 

Bond snorted. Even in the worst of times she was still a sarcastic bitch. “I’m game if you are.”

Bond could almost feel the kindness in her eyes. “At least I got one thing right.” 

And with that she was gone. He felt his eyes brim with tears as he reached down and shut her eyes. He kissed her on her forehead and began sobbing.

She was the only real maternal figure in his life, and he was going to miss her greatly.

Kincaid watched him cry for a few minutes, letting him grieve, before approaching James and placing a hand on his shoulder. James looked up, his dirty face streaked with tears. He knew it was time to go.

He fished in M’s jacket for a phone, a radio, anything at all to contact MI6. He swore when he came up empty. Getting up and stomping over to Silva’s body, he found a mobile phone in his pants pocket and dialed the number he knew off by heart.

It was time to bring her home.

 

//

 

The helicopter’s blades whirred as it took off, whining loudly. Kincaid was sitting next to Bond in the back. M’s body and Silva’s body were in the other helicopter. As the blades sliced the night air, Bond couldn’t stop shaking, despite the blankets wrapped around his shoulders. His teeth chattered so loudly he thought they’d fall out. She was gone. He couldn’t believe it. She was gone. 

Within the hour, they were touching down at Raigmore hospital in Inverness. Bond had wanted to go straight to England, but the pilots wouldn’t listen despite his requests, and in the end he gave up.

Bond’s helicopter was the first to land on the rooftop helipad, but he refused to go inside until M was there with him. The second helicopter touched down minutes later, and a storm of doctors and nurses rushed past him to it. _Could it be? Could she be alive?_

He took a step forward, hair whipping around his head in the wind from the rotors, hoping. But it was Silva who came out first, on a stretcher, oxygen mask strapped to his face.

Bond saw red. The bastard was still alive. He couldn’t believe it. A knife in the back couldn’t kill him; cyanide couldn’t kill him; was this man immortal? His hands clenched into fists. It was time to finish the job. 

He broke into a jog and was nearly at the stretcher before it got wheeled inside when someone grabbed his jacket and yanked him to a stop. He turned and glared at the man who had stopped him. Mallory. 

“Let me go. He needs to die.” Bond snarled. 

Mallory shook his head. “He will have justice served like every other citizen of this country.”

Bond’s eyes widened. “He killed M! You have to be joking. You can’t just let that murderer live. He shouldn’t have the right to a fair trial.” 

“He killed the former M. _I_ am the current head of MI6, and as an employee of mine you _will_ do what I say and not go near that man. He has incredible knowledge of computers and technology. Perhaps he can help us.”

“That murderer, helping us?” He snorted with derision.

Mallory just looked him in the eye as a doctor, fussing about his temperature and wrapping a foil blanket around him, led him away.

A week later was M’s burial. Bond stood, eyes red-rimmed from no sleep the night before, at the edge of her grave and tossed a handful of dirt in. He had hoped he would never have to do this again. Not after his parents. Not after Vesper. But here he was, throwing dirt on the grave of a woman he loved. Why was he doomed to fall into the same trap again and again?

He was sitting at a desk, back at MI6 after the funeral, when Mallory walked in. It was polite for an agent to stand up when their senior entered the room, but Bond simply looked up, saw who it was, and pulled out a cigarette. 

Mallory, arm still in a sling, sat down opposite Bond. “I suppose you’re ready to go back into the field.”

Bond looked at him, eyebrows slightly raised. “I’m not going anywhere until the bastard downstairs is dead and buried.” They were keeping Silva in the highest security cell they could find; no computers, no mobile phones. It was old style lock-and-key, something that couldn’t be hacked. 

Mallory sighed. He hadn’t told Bond, but the first time he went in to speak to Silva, he had asked where Bond was. When Mallory said he couldn’t tell Silva that, he sat and refused to answer questions until Mallory gave up. Some debriefing that was. The next two times had been the same. Silva was slowly opening up, but every time he was visited by anyone- be it by Mallory, his psychiatrist, a doctor, whomever- he asked where Bond was. It was unnerving.

“Silva is helping us. Can you imagine the connections this man has? We’re only beginning to discover everything. He’s related to almost every high-profile crime organization that exists. He has secrets, and since they could be useful, I’ll be damned if we’re getting rid of him with his secrets going to the grave.” Mallory said sternly. “He can help Queen and Country.”

Bond blew cigarette smoke in his boss’s direction and didn’t say a word.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confrontation ends up in Bond feeling very, very confused.

Bond yelped as water woke him. What was happening? His training kicked in and he reached for the knife he slept with under his pillow, sitting up and wiping the water from his eyes. “Q?” he said, seeing the young man standing at the foot of his bed. “What’s happening?”

“You’re pathetic, and I’ve come to wake you up.” Q said. 

James raised an eyebrow and put the knife back under the pillow, before drawing the sheets up to his armpits. Q rolled his eyes. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. Anyway, get up. You’re lolling around in bed, drinking and smoking and having sex with a different woman every night. It’s disgusting and you should be ashamed to call yourself a Double-O agent.”

Bond narrowed his eyes. “I am still in the grieving process-”

“Oh, except your psychologist says that you have moved on from grieving M.” Q interrupted. “So what’s happening? You’re being lazy, that’s what. Now get up and get dressed. We’re going to MI6.”

Bond just stared.

When Q rolled his eyes this time, Bond was surprised they didn’t get lost inside his head. “Oh, come ON Bond! What would M really want? Would she want you out in the field, doing a damn good job at what you do, and enjoying it? And don’t lie, we both know you love what you do.” He said as Bond tried to interject. “But instead you are getting fat and lazy. I’m surprised they haven’t downgraded you to a single-O agent already.”

Bond glared. “Now that’s not fair.”

Q glared back. “At this rate, I would be more eligible for double-O status than you.” 

Bond sighed, and swung his legs out of bed.

//

Dressed in a slightly rumpled, but still acceptable suit, 007 was frogmarched into Mallory’s office, Q behind him, making sure he couldn’t get away. Mallory had finally got his sling off, and was writing something when the two entered. 

“As you asked, Sir.” Q said. 

Mallory nodded and Q turned and walked out, winking at Bond as he did so.

Mallory continued writing for a minute and Bond sighed. Why was he here? He hadn’t done anything wrong. He shifted from foot to foot.

“You’re here because Q and others have been worried about your psychological mindset.” Mallory said, finally putting his pen down and looking up at Bond. “You have been refusing every mission offered to you, except menial tasks usually reserved for Single-O agents. You don’t seem to be eager to get back into the field.”

“You don’t say. I can’t do anything with that man down there, alive and well! What rewards is he getting for helping you, hm?” Mallory looked away and Bond snorted. “That man murdered the head of MI6 and he’s getting expensive dinners served to him.”

“Damn it, Bond! Why are you so hung up on this? How long has it been, hm? 5 months? 5 months since M died and Skyfall burnt down and you’re still bitter over this. That’s why you need to confront Silva.” Mallory snapped.

“I need to… What?” Bond asked, incredulous. A smile spread over his face as he realized what this meant. Revenge. Mallory was giving him free reign to kill the bastard.

“You heard me. A confrontation. It’s clear that there’s something about this that’s keeping you from becoming the agent you can be. No guns, no weapons, and this will be monitored. You lay a finger on him you will regret it. Understood?” Mallory eyed Bond. “Can I trust you to do this?”

Bond pursed his lips in thought. So he couldn't kill Silva after all. But why not? He could at least try to rile him up. Maybe drive him to suicide.

Mallory watched him. He was putting two very valuable individuals on the line, and he could not afford to lose either one of them. Bond was one of the best Double-O agents ever. Silva was the best informant they had ever had; his knowledge of computers was helping them immensely. 

Bond turned to him, his blue eyes piercing, and nodded.

//

“Aah, Mr. Bond. How nice to see you again.” Silva’s charming voice echoed around the cell. Bond thought it almost sounded serpentine, evil. 

Bond strode to the chair in the middle of the room and sat down before looking around the cell, but distinctly avoided meeting Silva’s eyes. The cell was simple, but clearly comfortable. A single bed, a toilet and a sink, a table, two chairs, and even a picture on the wall. Bond studied it. It was a coastline, but he didn’t recognize it; perhaps it was Silva’s grandmother’s island. 

The blue eyes met brown ones. Bond inhaled sharply. He hadn’t changed. Although he didn’t really know what he was expecting, death did tend to change people.

Silva smiled. Definitely serpentine. The bastard.

Bond smirked. 

The two men didn’t look away, one standing, one sitting; one sly, one cocky. 

It was Silva who broke the stare first by coming and sitting in the chair opposite from Bond. “To what do I owe this honor?” He asked, tilting his head slightly and licking his lips. 

Bond shuddered. There was still something predatory about this man, even though he was locked up. Even though he was caught. Even though he was as good as dead.

“Mallory says I have to come and see you.” 007 said.

Silva raised his eyebrows and leant forward, arms on the table. “Oh, you mean you didn’t come here voluntarily? Such a pity! I was looking forward to seeing you, and I hoped you would feel the same.” 

“Murderer.” Bond clenched his teeth.

Silva sat back. “Mr. Bond, you seem to forget your very own line of work.” 

“That’s different. I kill for Queen and Country-” Bond slammed a fist down on the table.

“Tell me, when did you last give a damn about Queen and Country?” Silva interrupted, all warmth gone from his voice, eyes watching Bond very, very closely.

Bond didn’t validate that with a proper response. “Shut up.”

Silva laughed. It bounced off the walls and made it sound like there were a million of him. “Oh, my dear, I seem to have struck a nerve.” He leaned forward again, grasped Bond’s chin in his hand, made the Englishman look him in the eyes. “The truth is, there is very little difference between you and I. The same cookie-cutter machine shaped us both; we simply chose different paths. Or rather, she chose them for us.”

Bond just stared at Silva, the hand on his chin almost feeling warm, almost caressing-

He stood up so abruptly the chair toppled to the ground. He turned his back on the blonde man and stormed out of the cell. 

//

At 5 o’clock in the morning, Bond was still awake. He was back in his house, vodka bottle in hand and drunk to the gills, contemplating why he felt so warm towards Raoul… And when he had started calling him Raoul in his head, anyway.

That touch had definitely been a caressing one. Why couldn’t the man keep it in his pants? Most of all, why could 007 not stop thinking about it? Why could he not stop replaying it over and over again, wishing the caress had moved lower? 

He took a swig from the bottle and shuddered. He looked down at himself. Pathetic. He was nothing but a pathetic, old, useless agent, driven to distraction by someone who was nothing to him. Or should be nothing to him, at least. 

Why could he not get him out of his head? His brown eyes, so wide and open, but yet could turn to cold and distant in a second. His scars… Oh, his scars… How he must have so many. And to think James himself had given him one… He almost wanted to kiss it.

What was wrong with him?! He stood up and stumbled over to his bed before he collapsed face down and let out a heavy sigh into the duvet. He knew he didn’t really care about who he fucked, be they man or woman; he had known that since he was young. But since Vesper, he had sworn never to love again. It just ended up in heartbreak. 

So what were these feelings for Raoul?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and thanks for your continued support! If there are any spelling mistakes just ignore them; I'm absolutely terrible about reading things over and catching mistakes :P 
> 
> I'm enjoying writing this so far :D


	3. Chapter 3

Bond lasted a week without seeing Raoul before talking to Mallory about visiting him again. He’d spend most of that week drunk out of his mind, to try to forget that caress. It didn’t work; if anything it had made it worse- he had spent a week in his own personal hell, reliving memories of Vesper over and over again while thinking about Raoul.

Mallory, at a desk as per usual, raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’re coming in here, sober, shaved, and I assume you dressed yourself, all to see Silva? If talking to that man has this effect on you, go right ahead.”

Bond nodded and thanked his superior before exiting his office and walking down the hallway. For the first time in months, he really was looking the part of a Double-O agent. He passed Eve and gave her a wink; she looked stunned- for the past few months he had barely spoken to her.

Within minutes he was in front of the huge, heavy door. He straightened his suit nervously, not really knowing why he did so, as it swung open and he stepped inside.

Silva was dressed in the regulation beige jumpsuit, presumably the one he’d been wearing last time, sitting in one of the chairs, almost like he’d been expecting 007. 

Bond sat down hesitantly. He didn’t really know why he was here, only that he had to speak to Silva; he had to figure this out. 

“Welcome, Mr. Bond. You look very dapper today.” Silva said with the ghost of a smile on his face. Bond was certain he was taking the piss.

“As do you, Mr. Silva. Beige suits you.” Bond replied, equally as sarcastic. 

Silva raised his eyebrow. “I blend in. My hair, my skin, I’m all the same colour. I do wish they would give me something nice, like blue. I wouldn’t mind blue.” 

“I am not here to discuss fabric colours for MI6’s jumpsuits.”

“Then what are you here for, hm?”

“I… I don’t know.” 

Silva sat back and waited. 

Bond opened and closed his mouth and seemed to want to say something. He looked up at Silva and blurted, “tell me more about your grandmother’s island.”

Silva was not expecting that. He blinked once, twice, before obliging and settling into a description he had told many times before.

“I spent every childhood summer there, running around with my cousins. We would dig for worms in the sand and catch fish with them as bait. If we caught a big one, that was what we would eat for dinner. To me, it was the most magical place. A whole island! And it was ours! We could do whatever we pleased and we often did. I remember times where we played pirates…” He trailed off, lost in thought.

Bond rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. That story had just proved that Silva really was human, and did have emotions. The opposite of what he had been hoping to achieve. 

He looked up to see Silva looking at him with softness in his eyes so strong it startled him. Silva leaned forward, so close they were almost touching across the table, and whispered, too quiet for the microphones to pick up, “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you.” He leaned back and waited for Bond’s reaction.

Bond wanted to leap across the table and kiss him. Either that or leap across the table and strangle him. He wasn’t sure which. He grimaced. 

Silva sat forward again and laid his hand over Bond’s. Bond looked at it, then at Silva. He swallowed. Shook his head. 

This time, his leaving was not quite so abrupt. He slid his hand out from under Silva’s, turned and headed for the door. As it opened, he looked back at Silva. The blonde man met his gaze with what seemed like disappointment in his eyes. 

He walked out and didn’t look back. 

//

A month later, after a successful short mission in Paris (his first since Skyfall), 007 had barely shut the front door of his house behind him when he knew something was wrong. He drew his Walther PPK from his underarm holster and held it out in front of him.

_Someone was in his house._

He crept into the living room and shut his eyes to try to hear something, anything; nothing but silence met his ears.

He opened his eyes the moment the light snapped on.

Wheeling around, he pointed the gun straight at his intruder’s heart and was about to pull the trigger when he realized who it was and was unarmed; literally and figuratively. He dropped the gun and froze in place.

Raoul.

The man he’d been dreaming of for the past month.

In his house.

Escaped.

Raoul Silva was wearing a black tailored suit that fitted him perfectly. In each hand he held a glass of scotch with ice. When he met Bond’s eyes, he smiled widely. “Aah, Mr. Bond! I was wondering when you would show up.”

Bond quickly got over his shock, bending down to scoop up his gun and holstering it. “It’s not often I get that in my own house.” He replied, shrugging off his suit jacket.

Silva took a step towards him and brandished the scotch in his direction. “For you, my dear; I think you will enjoy this one.”

Bond took it, fingers brushing Silva’s momentarily. _Don’t think about that._ To take his mind off it, he sculled the drink and placed the glass down unceremoniously on the kitchen bench. Silva looked horrified. “You don’t scull a scotch like this! You sip it.”

Bond chuckled and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not in this house. So, are you going to tell me why you’re here and why you haven’t killed me yet?”

“All that interrogation was getting tiresome. All they wanted was details, blah blah, and it was all on my computer, anyway. Something your precious Q could have got into in seconds. So I escaped. It was easy.” He winked.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.” Bond pointed out.

All the confidence seemed to drop off Silva’s shoulders. “I… I don’t really know either.” He replied. But then the mask was back and he was his usual self again. “To share a scotch with a friend, of course!” He finished his drink and placed the glass down, carefully, next to Bond’s. 

Without warning and very quickly, Silva was right in front of James, hands brushing his. Bond inhaled sharply. Having him this close was very hard to resist.

Slowly, gently, Silva – every moment looking at James – leaned forward and kissed him. Bond closed his eyes and didn’t move. Every inch of him wanted to kiss Silva back… Or choke him to death. 

Silva stepped back, eyes bright, like nothing had happened. Bond clenched his fists. Stepping forward, he took Silva’s head in his hands and closed the distance with a crushing kiss. It was what they were both looking for. Silva’s arms closed around him and began pushing him up against the wall. 

He realized he was fumbling with Silva’s shirt buttons, but then the shirt was gone and he was angrily shoving the other man across to the other wall, pinning him up against it while their hands roamed hungrily. 

Dimly he was aware that somehow they’d made it to the bedroom and more and more clothes were coming off. Bond and Silva lost each other in violence and lust, making marks on each other's bodies, taking their anger out on each other and apologizing after. 

It was raw and animalistic. They kissed maybe once, and that was Silva showing dominance, forcing Bond’s face around and kissing him so hard Bond was sure his lips were bruised. They barely spoke; just grunts and moans broke the night air. It was angry.

By the time morning came, the two men were bruised and sore. Bond was lying on Silva’s chest, squinting in the morning light. The consequences of what he had done had yet to sink in, and he was just enjoying the moment.

Silva stroked Bond’s hair. “Tell me about Vesper.” He whispered. He somehow didn’t want to break the fragile silence that comes with daybreak. He wanted to know this part of his lover. 

An hour later, Silva could now truthfully say he had held a grown man while he sobbed his heart out. Bond had a lot of pent up emotion over the whole thing; it was probably a pity she died. She had been a pretty one. 

Although then Raoul never would have met the Englishman. 

He shuddered at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg this fic is just bursting out of me. It took me just 12 hours to get this part done. In beta form, anyway- that's why I'm posting it now, I had to edit in n shiz. 
> 
> I am having so, so much fun writing this, like you guys don't even know. I love these two characters and I love the way we interact. I'm really really proud of this chapter :3
> 
> Anyway I hope you enjoy chapter 3, hang tight for chapter 4 :)


	4. Chapter 4

Before Bond really realized what was happening, he and Silva were in a full on relationship. Every day he’d go to work, accepting missions that were really below him to ensure he didn’t have to go overseas. He’d look forward to going home where Silva would be waiting with a different scotch or whiskey for him to try. Although Silva hadn’t officially moved in, he had a lot of his computers and belongings scattered around the house. 

When 007 came home one day, Silva was hunched over a computer, wearing nothing but a pair of Bond’s pajama pants. He hid a smile and kissed Silva on the cheek as a way of greeting; Silva grunted and didn’t look up. Bond smiled. When the man got involved in his work, nothing could pull him out of it. He went upstairs to the bedroom with the morning’s paper and began reading.

An hour or so later, Silva ripped the paper out of Bond’s hands and kissed him fiercely. Bond rolled over and sat on top of Silva, grabbing his hands and forcing them over his head.

Silva smirked. “Feeling adventurous, are you? Not often you’re the dominant one.”

Bond shut him up with a kiss. He didn’t know what it was but he needed to be close to Silva, feel his body against his and be filled. He lost himself in the blonde man’s body.

When it was over, Silva looked up at him and told him he had to leave. Not for long, he explained. Just a little caretaking to do, somewhere in France. Nothing big. But Bond couldn’t shake his feelings of dread.

Bond wrapped his arms around Silva and held him tightly. “Do you really have to go? How long will you be?”

“Shh, love. It won’t be for long, I promise. A month at the longest.” Silva kissed Bond’s chest as way of apology. “Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to go. However my subordinates are being… difficult.” 

Bond sighed. “When do you have to go?” 

“Not for a few weeks. We can stay in bed the whole time, if you’d like.” Bond felt his lover smirk on his chest. 

He chuckled. “I’m sure you’d love that.”

//

You ever love somebody so much you can barely breathe  
When you with 'em?  
You meet and neither one of you even know what hit 'em  
Got that warm fuzzy feeling  
Yeah, them chills you used to get 'em  
Now you're getting fucking sick of looking at 'em  
You swore you'd never hit 'em; never do nothing to hurt 'em  
Now you're in each other's face spewing venom in your words when you spit them  
You push, pull each other's hair, scratch, claw, hit 'em  
Throw 'em down, pin 'em  
So lost in the moments when you're in them 

//

Aware of each other’s presence more than ever, they spent as much time as possible together. Perhaps it was this that sparked their first fight.

Bond wasn’t in the best mood. He’d had a shit day at work – he’d gotten a lecture from Mallory, and been threatened with having his Double-O status taken away. In retaliation he’d stormed out of Mallory’s office and slammed the door behind him so hard it came off the hinges; Mallory was _seriously_ angry.

Silva had had a similarly bad day. In doing a hack into the French government’s files, he’d been locked out by some new protocols and couldn’t, no matter how he tried, get around them. For some reason this set him off and he spent most of the afternoon steaming mad. 

When Bond stormed in and slammed the door, it set Silva off. “Please! I have a headache.” He yelled across the room.

“Nice life for some, staying home all day. Mallory’s on my case about not working hard enough.” Bond retorted.

Silva glared. “Oh, yes, and that’s worthy of slamming the door.” 

Bond didn’t bother to respond and went upstairs, slamming more doors as he went, swearing and yelling. 

Silva followed him, trying to keep his cool despite his anger. “What’s wrong? What’s got you so upset?” At this point, Bond was sitting on the bed. He’d stopped yelling and swearing, but was visibly shaking with anger. Silva gingerly sat down next to him. “Come on, my dear, you can tell me what’s wrong.” He wrapped an arm around his lover’s shoulders.

Bond shoved him, hard. Silva tumbled sideways off the bed and was up on his feet in a flash. 

He advanced towards Bond slowly. “Don’t you ever lay your hands on me again. Ever.” He said, his voice dangerously low and calm.

“Don’t threaten me.” Bond said, voice equally as dark.

Silva clenched his fist. He wanted to punch Bond so badly, knock some sense into him. He didn’t get the chance, however, as Bond took a step forward and shoved him again. 

Silva saw red. He grabbed Bond by the wrist and swung him around, into the wall, shoving his forearm up against the Englishman’s throat. When he looked into his eyes he expected to see fear, but instead saw rage.

Bond punched Silva in the gut and when he doubled over, said, “You’re leaving! You’re leaving like her.” He accentuated his words by pushing Silva towards the bed. 

Silva straightened up and in an instant knew what this was about, but Bond had regained his strength and was forcing him down onto the bed. He began to struggle, memories of his time in China coming back hard and fast. He began to shake as Bond crawled on top of him and pinned him. 

With a roar and a few words in Spanish, he managed to shove Bond off him. He sat on top of him and pinned his arms down with his thighs. Bond struggled and Silva slapped him.

Bond blinked and winced, almost like awakening from a trance.

“Do… I need… To slap you again…?” Silva panted. 

Bond shook his head and Silva rolled off him and curled up into a ball, his back to Bond. As much as his training with MI6 had instilled in him ways to be aware for the torture tactics their enemies used, Silva couldn’t help it. Being pinned down while Bond was in a rage had triggered him in a big way. He shook as memories flooded his brain. The toothpicks under his fingernails. The repetitive knife wounds. The water boarding. The sleep deprivation. The multiple rapes.

After a few minutes, Bond had regained control of himself. He couldn’t believe he’d actually laid hands on Silva. The one thing he’d sworn never to do, and he’d done it. He looked over at his lover, and his eyes opened wide. Silva was in the fetal position, muttering things in Spanish as tears streamed down his cheeks. 

Slowly, he reached down and grasped Silva’s hand. The blonde man held onto it tightly and eventually crawled over to cry silently into Bond’s shirt. As Bond held him, he realized the implications of what he had done, and how on earth he could ever fix this. They’d taught him about PTSD, of course, and after every mission he had counseling. But it was clear he had triggered Silva into a full-on flashback and there was nothing he could do but wait it out. 

Soon Silva stopped crying and sat up slowly. He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. Cried, on Bond’s chest. How humiliating. He turned to look at Bond.

“I’m sorry.” They both said at once. Silva smiled.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, my love.” He laid back and draped himself around Bond. 

“I made you cry. I triggered you. If that’s not something to be sorry about, then I am never saying sorry again.” He felt Silva’s smile on his chest, and reached down and tilted his head up. “I mean it. I lost my temper and I shouldn’t have done what I did. I apologize.” 

Silva looked up at the man he… what, lusted after? It couldn’t be love. Could it? He heaved himself up on his elbows and planted a quick kiss on Bond’s lips. “No, _corazón_ , I am sorry. These flashbacks do not happen often but when they do they are violent.”

Bond kissed the top of Silva’s head and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s not your fault. Also, what is corazón?”

Silva grinned. “Your Spanish is atrocious. I need to teach you some. It means sweetheart.” 

“My heart is dead and cold, you know that.” Bond said dryly.

“Ah, no. I can hear it beating.” Silva replied, perfectly seriously, his head right over Bond’s heart. “It is anything but dead and cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lyrics in the middle are from "Love The Way You Lie" by Eminiem ft. Rihanna. 
> 
> So this chapter was difficult for me to write. Having being abused and raped myself, writing what Silva went through triggered me a little bit. I pushed through it and wrote on however. I hope you all enjoy! I appreciate your comments and kudos and ongoing support <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Like a moth to a candle, you have flown straight into my trap.” A male voice with a French accent purred from the darkness.

When Silva let himself into Bond’s house on the night before he left, he smelt… Was that food?

He wandered into the kitchen and had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of James in an apron and oven mitts, putting a chicken into the oven. It was so homely, so casual, that the beauty of the situation struck him. He walked over to his lover and hugged him from behind, his cheek resting against James’ back. He closed his eyes and smelt the chicken, and James, and the house…

Bond turned around and hugged Silva hard. They stood there for a few minutes, just standing there and enjoying the feel of each other. Bond broke the silence first. “Mallory has finally given up looking for you.”

Silva stepped back, his heavy-lidded eyes twinkling. “He would never have found me – his own agent hiding an enemy?” 

Bond smiled and turned back to stir a pot that had come to the boil, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Not the esteemed 007, oh, never.”

//

The dinner was a stereotypical romantic one- candles, wine, the like. Except instead of a nervous woman and an over-confident man, it was an ex MI6 agent gone rogue, and one of the best Double-Os in the business. 

Silva looked at Bond across the table and raised his wineglass. “The food is excellent. Considering I never see you cook, you did a very good job.”

Bond looked up, smiling around a mouthful of food. He swallowed and said, “I’m glad you think so.” He reached across and touched Silva’s hand, gently, before returning it to his fork and continuing to eat.

After dinner, as the candles burned down to stumps, they made love. It was the most tender sex they’d had, but a part of each of them yearned for the more rough times. They caressed and kissed, whispered and held, comforted and teased. It was a perfect way to say goodbye.  
3:02 pm GMT  
In the morning, Bond woke up and rolled over, expecting to feel Silva’s chest underneath his fingertips, but instead his hands met the cold sheet. Of course, he’d had to get to his plane. He rubbed his eyes before looking at his Omega; it was 3pm already. 

Slowly, he sat up and looked at where Silva had laid, every night for the past two months. There was a note on the pillow, addressed to James. He reached over and opened it up.

_Corazón,_

_I know you worry, even though you will not say so. As I said, I will not be gone for long. Every second that I am not by your side, I will be thinking of you._

_To think that something so beautiful could come out of a twisted old bitch like M is amazing._

_Au revoir, corazón, I will write every day. Do try to enjoy yourself without me._

_-RS_

James fingered the note. Uncharacteristically romantic, he thought. Perhaps Raoul was getting soft in his old age, like James himself. He heaved himself out of bed and padded into the bathroom for a shower.

//

_4:02 pm CET_  
At the same time, on his own Learjet 75, rocketing over the English Channel, Silva was penning a letter to his corazón. Well, you could call it a letter, but it was more like a note. He _had_ promised to write every day, but he didn’t plan to send them all. More give them as a gift when he got back. 

He signed the note and slipped it carefully inside an envelope, and then inside his jacket pocket, and promptly forgot about it, instead thinking of what lay ahead.

He had been lying to James. What he had to do in France was not just simple business, and there was a very big chance indeed he would be returning to England in a coffin. He patted his side for the 10th time; his Glock was still there, nestled in its holster. 

He felt the pressure change and realized they were descending. 

It had begun.

_3:40 pm GMT_  
Bond stepped out of the long shower and reached for a towel. As he dried his hair, he wandered out of the bathroom and down the stairs. He wrapped the towel around his waist, and sat down heavily on the lounge. He grabbed the remote and switched on the TV.

_4:45 pm CET_  
Silva’s stood at the top of the stairs of his Learjet. A fierce wind was blowing around the airport; it whipped his hair out of shape immediately. He took the stairs slowly, taking his time to get to the car waiting below, its open door beckoning. 

_4:58 pm CET_  
The car pulled up at the warehouse and Silva got out, slamming the door behind him. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, the knife in his boot and, of course, his pistol. The car sped off behind him. 

He was alone. 

_3:58 pm GMT_  
Bond was rummaging through his chest of drawers, looking for a pair of pants suitable to wear to drinks and dinner. Eve had rang him and asked him, just the two of them; she wanted to talk to him, she had said. They hadn’t spoken in a while. James accepted gladly; Eve was great company and had a good sense of humor. 

_4:59 pm CET_  
Silva took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the warehouse, his gun drawn and at the ready. Silence met his ears and darkness met his eyes. It was as if a thick blanket had been thrown over his head and had muffled everything. He took a step forward, his shoes clicking on the concrete.

_4:00 pm GMT_  
Bond froze.

He’d heard something. 

Someone was downstairs. 

Leaping across the room silently like a cat, he grabbed the knife from under his pillow and shoved it into his pants waistband. He returned to the chest of drawers and pulled out a spare Walter PPK he kept in there. Holding his breath, he trod softly across the carpet, out of his bedroom and to the top of the stairs. He listened closely.

_5:00 pm CET._  
“Like a moth to a candle, you have flown straight into my trap.” A male voice with a French accent purred from the darkness.

Silva tensed. The lights flickered on and he was looking straight into the bright green eyes of someone from his past – someone he thought was dead. 

Those eyes… 

A gunshot rang out over the warehouse.

_4:00 pm GMT_  
Bond lowered himself onto the first step. It creaked. He swore under his breath. 

“Up there!” He heard the call. He gritted his teeth and waited. Sure enough, thugs with guns began charging up the stairs. He got the first two out of the way with headshots; they knocked over the ones following them. But still, more they came, like ants, seemingly never-ending. They advanced up the stairs at a ridiculously fast rate. As Bond shot one, two would take his place. _What the hell was going on? A raid, in his house? Was this MI6? Was this something to do with Silva?_

His gun clicked and in desperation he pulled the trigger over and over again, the gun clicking uselessly. By this time, one of the thugs had reached the top of the stairs. 

They squared off. 

Before Bond even saw it coming, the man punched Bond so hard he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooollllyyy shiiitttt!!!!!!!!!!! Cliffhanger much?? Is Silva alive?? Where are they taking James? Who knows?? I don't, considering I haven't written it yet!
> 
> Maybe I'll wait a bit to write chapter 6 just to torture you... ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva leaned forward, forehead on his knees, and began to cry softly. He couldn’t believe this. How could he be so stupid? To risk his life was one thing, but to risk his Corazon’s: that was unforgivable. He would have more blood on his hands then ever.

Silva’s eyes snapped open. He was woozy, his head was pounding, and his side stung. He groaned – thankfully the bullet had just grazed him, but it sure as hell hurt. 

Instantly he was back in that place, the place MI6 had taught him to go to, and where he still went whenever his safety was compromised. His mind started working at a million miles an hour, processing and taking in the environment around him.

From the echo of the groan, he was in a large, enclosed space, probably with concrete floors. He was sitting on a metal chair – he jumped from the cold when he touched it. His hands were handcuffed to each arm of the chair, and his legs were similarly tied to each leg of the chair. He tested each restraint carefully. Whoever had tightened the handcuffs was an expert; they were tight enough to keep him in place but they didn’t cut off his circulation. However, his legs were looser. Perhaps a way out…

Suddenly, the lights came on, and Silva winced against the brightness. Directly in front of him, a few meters away, was a large computer terminal. Several monitors and hard drives lay scattered about; on top of it all was a huge TV screen. 

He jumped as two hands came down hard on his shoulders. The French voice murmured, “Ah, welcome back to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty.”  
The man walked around until he was standing in front of Silva. They stared each other down.

The Frenchman went by the name Alexandre, although no one knew his real name. He was tall and thin, with bright green eyes and a winning smile. His pale skin offset his jet-black hair. He wore perfectly fitted suits and always had on eyeglasses. 

“Alexandre. Such a pleasure to see you again.” Silva said in French. He spoke the language fluently, albeit accented.

Alexandre waved a hand and raised an eyebrow. “I am not here for pleasantries. You know what you have done.”

Silva shook his head. “Non, je ne sais pas.” No, I don’t know.

Without warning, Alexandre punched him directly in the mouth. Silva retaliated by spitting the blood from his mouth back at him. Alexandre ignored this and took a seat from the computer terminal and wheeled it over so he was sitting in front of Silva.

“Because of your stupid obsession with that head of MI6, you got captured by them, oui? And when you were there, you thought it was a great idea to share everyone’s secrets, didn’t you? Oui?”

Silva nodded. “Pourquoi pas?” Why not?

“Because now MI6 is after me, and not only me, but my colleagues as well. There is a price on your head, my dear.” Alexandre said with a twisted smile. “Why did you do it? Why did you give away our secrets? You could have been welcomed back with opened arms; we all could have laughed at how stupid England is. And yet you betrayed us all.”

Silva, blood trickling down his chin, snorted. “I would hardly call you colleagues. You, Alexandre: I worked with you years and years ago. The last time I worked with any of you was two years ago, and that was Brizio.”

The colleagues whom Alexandre was referring to were other criminals who used hacking and computers as their main means of doing business. There were only a few who were truly good at what they did: Silva, Alexandre, Brizio De Luca - a reclusive Italian - and Kenji Sato, who was the Yakuza’s in-house hacker. 

Because there were only 4 of them, each of them had enough work to tide them over nicely. They all knew each others business. Silva should have known that this was coming sooner or later. 

“It doesn’t matter!” Alexandre yelled. “We paid, all because of your obsession. Do you know what we had to do? I had to go into hiding. Brizio was tortured. Kenji was slaughtered.”

Silva was genuinely surprised and a little taken aback. He hadn’t believed MI6 would do anything with the information he’d given them. Brizio had been a good man, if a shy one; it was a pity he had been through that. And Kenji… While Silva had never worked with him directly, the man’s genius spoke for him. 

Alexandre smiled. “You see, we all paid. Now, it’s your turn.”

Silva tensed. No. He couldn’t do this. Not again. Not torture again. His pupils dilated and his heart started beating fast. 

The Frenchman got up. “Do you know how you are going to pay for your sins, my dear?” Silva shook his head, beginning to tremble. 

Alexandre strode over to the computer terminal and hit a few keys on the keyboard. The TV screen sprung into life. Silva stared up at it curiously. A man was tied to a chair, just like he was. Except this man had a black cloth over his head, and he was completely naked except for a tattered pair of boxers. 

So he wasn’t going to be tortured. He let out a shaky breath. As long as that wasn’t happening, he could be okay. But what was this? Who was this man?

A figure stepped into the picture, dressed all in black. His hand reached forward and ripped the cloth off the prisoner’s head, revealing a dirty face, with bright blue eyes staring directly into the camera’s lens.

Silva stared.

It was Bond.

His heart shattered in two and he swore he heard it. They were going to kill him. They were going to kill him and make him watch it. 

He let out a scream so loud that Alexandre winced and covered his ears. He violently struggled against the chair. Not James, anything but him… He had to get free. He had to save him. 

He leaned forward, forehead on his knees, and began to cry softly. He couldn’t believe this. How could he be so stupid? To risk his life was one thing, but to risk his Corazon’s: that was unforgivable. He would have more blood on his hands then ever. 

Alexandre walked behind Silva and yanked his head up by the hair. He leaned down and told Silva, “you will watch, and you will pay for what you have done.” Silva, helpless to do anything, watched the screen as tears rolled down his cheeks.

//

Bond was disorientated. He knew he was tied to a chair, he knew there was a camera in front of him, and he knew there were another two men in this room with him- but that was it. Perhaps it was the aftereffects of the punch or perhaps they had drugged him, he wasn’t sure. 

One of the men had something cold and was dragging it back and forth on his shoulders and chest. Looking down, he realized it was a knife. In the back of his head alarm bells began to ring, but he was too out of it to really realize what was happening. 

The first slice, on his right shoulder, brought him out of his stupor quickly. It was deep and blood began to run down his chest and arm. He looked at the liquid and winced, remembering. _The men in his house._ What was this about?

The man with the knife walked in front of him and placed the blade under his chin, forcing 007 to look him in the eyes. The man was brown haired and had brown eyes. When he smiled, he looked almost… predatory. It reminded him of Silva.

Silva! Where was he? Was he all right? If James was in trouble, was Silva safe? He gasped as the man made another deep slice on his shoulder, but was craning his neck to look around the dank room. He had to escape. He had to find Silva.

Apart from the chair he was sitting on, a table on the other side of the room with various instruments laid out on it, the camera and a single fluorescent light above his head, the room was dirty and empty. 

The man, seeming to dislike Bond’s nonplussed reaction to the knife, walked over to the table and picked something up. He turned around and brandished the pliers in Bond’s direction. 

Bond shook his head and leant away from the man as he came closer and closer. MI6 had taught him what torture was like, but this was the real thing. His body began to shake violently.

The man grabbed his finger and placed the nail in the jaws of the pliers, before closing the jaws and yanking. Bond screamed long and hard, his body jerking in pain. He looked down in horror. The fingernail was completely gone. 

Somewhere, Silva was screaming, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghjkl ;_____________;
> 
> omg no Silva omg NO BOND
> 
> ok i'm writing chapter 7 as we speak
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Silva gets freaky.

_36 hours later_  
Silva had managed to get a few hours of sleep when Bond wasn’t screaming – it was sleep deprivation they were trying now. They’d ripped out all of his fingernails and toenails and were now keeping him awake. 

He jolted awake at Bond’s yell, but thankfully it was just the captors throwing water on him to keep his eyes open and nothing more serious than that. 

Alexandre was in and out of the warehouse; he enjoyed watching Silva’s reactions to Bond’s screams of pain. But for now he wasn’t around. “Alexandre!” Silva yelled, the warehouse repeating it after him. 

Nothing.

He furiously began trying to loosen the bonds around his ankles. He had felt the right loop was looser than the left, and so began work on that one by lifting and lowering his foot repeatedly while straining against the knots. His leg began to get tired but he kept at it, all the while keeping his eyes on his lover. Bond’s head was lolling back but every time his eyes closed, the torturers would slap him or punch him in the stomach to keep him awake. 

He remembered his time in China; sleep deprivation was a great torture tactic, because it soon made the victim go insane. They’d pretty much spill every secret they had at that point.

Silva froze. The Chinese had been torturing him to get information out of him. But Bond had no information to give. They were torturing him for the sake of it.

When would they stop? When Silva went insane? When James went insane? When they killed both of them? He grimaced and continued his loosening of the rope. 

An hour later, with his leg on fire and muscles screaming at him to stop, his right leg was free. He stretched it out in front of him and sighed. They were still keeping Bond awake; his beautiful blue eyes looked dead at this point. 

He leant over as far as his handcuffs allowed and looked at the knot on his left leg. Much tighter than the right leg. 

He leaned back and winced as one of the men delivered a particularly hard punch to Bond’s midsection. He doubled over coughing and almost on instinct, Silva leaned forward, wanting to take care of James. 

Even if he did manage to get free, which was doubtful, he had no clue where James was being kept. Although perhaps he could locate the signal using – 

He heard a door screech somewhere in the warehouse and quickly slipped his right foot back into the loop of the rope. “Bonjour!” He heard Alexandre’s voice cry out as he came into view, carrying a loaf of bread. He placed the bread on the computer desk and stood back to watch. 

“Aah, sleep deprivation. Fun, don’t you think?” He said, smiling at Silva.

Silva stared back unblinkingly. “I’m hungry.”

Alexandre leaned over, opened the bag of bread, and threw him a slice. It landed in his lap. Alexandre laughed. 

“That’s Paris’s finest bread, mon chéri! Too bad you’ll just have to stare at it in your lap.” He smirked. 

Silva raised an eyebrow. Alexandre sighed. “You’re no fun.”

He stalked over to Silva and crouched in front of him. Gently, he took the bread from Silva’s lap, fingers brushing the blonde man’s cock as he did so. Silva held back a shudder and opened his mouth as Alexandre tore off a bit of bread and placed it on his tongue.

It was very nice bread. Light, fluffy and tasty. He swallowed eagerly and opened his mouth for more. Alexandre placed another piece in Silva’s mouth and caressed his face. Silva grimaced as he chewed. 

Alexandre chuckled. “Ah, mon chéri, you are not used to being tied up, are you?” 

Silva rolled his eyes, unable to talk around a mouthful of bread. He didn’t like the advances Alexandre was making, but he would put up with them. For now. Angering one’s captor is never a good idea.

“Last bit!” Alexandre sing-songed, placing the last piece of bread in Silva’s mouth. This time, his hand moved lower. Silva jumped, causing him to swallow the bread on instinct. _Damn._ He hadn’t got to savour the taste. 

Alexandre giggled and stood back abruptly. “Enough bread for now.”

“I need to use the bathroom again.” Silva stated. 

Alexandre sighed. “Really?”

Silva raised his chin. “Why would I lie?” He did need to use the bathroom, but it was nice to stretch his legs and, most importantly, escape.

Alexandre fished the keys to the handcuffs from his pocket. He uncuffed one wrist from the chair, then the other, and then handcuffed both hands together, in Silva’s lap. He reached down and untied the left and right knots, not even seeming to notice how loose the right one was. 

Silva stood up and stretched every muscle in his body, lifting his arms over his head. He watched Alexandre’s face carefully and saw the flash of fear in his eyes. Alexandre was slim and tall, but hardly muscly. Silva was tall and thickset, and could easily overpower the Frenchman. 

Alexandre gave him a shove in the back and they began walking forward. Silva had memorized where the bathroom was by now and quickened his pace. He really had to go.

He stepped inside and shut the door on Alexandre, but didn’t lock it. He heard the Frenchman’s loud sigh. “Try anything funny, mon chéri, and you’ll get the same fate as your lover.” 

Silva shuddered. He had a new appreciation for his fingernails after China.

As he washed his hands – difficult, thanks to the handcuffs – he thought on what he was about to do. He ran everything over in his head, double-checking his plan. He looked at himself in the dusty, streaky mirror as he shook his hands to dry them. This was it. He was going to get out of this place or die trying. 

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and smiled at Alexandre. Alexandre raised an eyebrow and smiled back. Silva took two steps forward until he was directly in front of Alexandre. The taller man didn’t move, but Silva heard his inhalation. 

Alexandre leaned forward and kissed Silva gently on the mouth. It was so different to James’s kisses that Silva nearly shoved him off. He fought the urge and kissed back. Their mouths parted and Alexandre’s tongue slipped in-between Silva’s lips. 

Silva measured the moment, waiting until he felt Alexandre’s hands around his waist to pull him closer. _Now!_

Breaking the kiss, Silva raised his hands and with a roar of rage, roughly hit Alexandre on the side of the head so hard he went stumbling. He didn’t even have a chance to fight back as Silva, with athletic skills belying his age, launched a powerful kick into his side. Alexandre hit the concrete hard, cracking his skull as his eyes fluttered closed. 

Silva stood there, hands cuffed in front of him, breathing hard. It was time to get out of this place and find James. But first… Crouching over Alexandre’s (unfortunately not dead) body, he awkwardly fished around in the Frenchman’s pockets for the keys to the handcuffs. When he couldn’t find them in his trouser pockets, his heart began to beat faster. What if they weren’t here? He could force the cuffs off, but it would take longer… Just as he had this thought, his hand hit a small, metal object. He pulled it out and smiled. The key.

Within seconds, his hands were free. The cuffs hit the floor with a rattle. He bent down and took the knife from his boot. What should he do with the sack of shit laying here in front of him?

A slit throat seemed too kind for the man who had orchestrated the attack and torture against James. Still, Silva wasn’t going to wait around for Alexandre to wake up so he could torture him. Shrugging, he drove his knife into the man’s chest up to the hilt and pulled it out, wiping the blood on Alexandre’s suit jacket. As the jacket fell open, it revealed Silva’s Glock, in his own holster. Silva swore. The bastard, who did he think he was, stealing Silva’s gun? He ripped the Glock out of the holster and the holster off the dead man and strapped it around himself. He checked the clip; fully loaded. Good.

Holstering the pistol and striding over to the computer desk, he looked at the TV. They were beating James up now. He watched, unable to look away in horror, as they punched him and kicked him, one at a time. 

Shaking his head, he turned his attention to the computer in front of him and hit a few keys to wake up the monitor. He snorted- there wasn’t even a password. He sat down on the wheelie chair and began to type, looking for a way to hone in on the signal the camera was broadcasting. It took him 5 minutes, but he finally got in, and watched as the screen showed a map of the world. It zoomed in to show Europe, and then England, and then a town just outside London, finally to the address. He grabbed a scrap of paper and a pen and scribbled the address.

He knew where James was. Now it was time to go and get him. 

//

Bond was tired, but thankfully it hadn’t reached insanity levels yet. They weren’t feeding him, and the only water he got was the ice water that was dumped on him to wake him up. 

Now they were beating him up. The two men hardly spoke, and if they did it was to give orders or collaborate on who was hitting where- “pass the pliers, please” or, “knock his teeth out.” 

They’d take their turns to punch him in the face, one on each side. His eyes and cheeks were swollen so much it looked like he’d gotten stung by a bee. A tear trickled down his cheek as one of the men kicked him in the groin. Where was Silva? Was he going through a similar fate?

If Silva was dead, he wanted to be, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my reasoning behind the whole "Silva seducing Alexandre to escape" thing: Silva's been around the block and knows a lot. He knows that Alexandre has the hots for him, for whatever reason. And by kissing him, it provides enough of a distraction for him to be able to take control of the situation. 
> 
> I'm kind of glad he's dead though. Alexandre, that is. I didn't like him. How can one not like their own OC? No idea but I just don't xD
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoy this one :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He settled back and waited for the call while contemplating what he was going to do to the bastards who had hurt James.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -PLEASE READ!-
> 
> I'm interested in aviation, hence the description of what Silva does in the cockpit. I understand most of you aren't, though, so I kept it relatively short. Leave it up to me and this whole chapter would be nothing but Silva flying the plane xD
> 
> Anyway, there's a glossary of terms in the end notes for those who don't quite understand all the terms I use. 
> 
> Here is a picture of Silva's plane: http://www.planespotters.net/Aviation_Photos/photo.show?id=340240

Silva walked out of the warehouse, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. Instinctively, he ducked as a jet roared overhead. _Of course._ The warehouse was a fifteen-minute drive from the airport; he could probably walk there. He set off at a brisk jog. 

Twenty minutes later, Silva strode through the doors to the terminal of the Le Bourget Airport, Paris’s General Aviation and Business Aviation airport. He headed straight for the bathrooms. Unlike the dusty, dirty warehouse, this bathroom was white, clean and well lit. Silva looked in the mirror. He looked tired. He had the start of a beard, and his hair had brown roots. He grimaced and washed the blood off his hands before exiting the bathroom and thinking. He had to get to England, and the fastest way was to fly there. However he’d told his pilot to take a week off and he had no way to contact him, anyway. The last time he’d flown a plane had been… back in his MI6 days. He still remembered everything, and he did still hold his private pilot license, but he was still apprehensive. He had done his training on much smaller jets than the Learjet 45. He fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and found the keys to the door of the plane. Looking down at them in his hand, he heaved a sigh. 

Weaving his way throughout the small terminal, he exited onto the tarmac and began walking to where the bizjets were parked. He recognized his jet easily from the white, red and blue paint scheme and sure enough, as he got closer, he saw the colours of the Spanish flag on the tail. This was his plane, all right.

He unlocked the door, lowered the stairs and climbed inside. Everything was untouched and just how he left it. He took a seat in the cockpit and looked at the dials and knobs before him. 

He could do this.

Fifteen minutes later he was ready. The plane’s engine covers had been removed; he’d completed the visual inspection of the airframe, lowered and raised the flaps, ailerons and elevators. The plane had, thankfully, been fuelled up when they landed, so he didn’t have to call for a refuel. 

He exited the cabin and pulled the door closed and locked it into place. Going back to the cabin, he sat in the pilots seat and started up the engines. He heard the whine of the turbines spinning first on the left side, then on the right. Both engines seemed to be idling fine. He grabbed the headset from the seat opposite him and put it on his head. 

“La Bourget Ground, this is India Lima Kilo. Request taxi to runway zero three left, two five right, over.” He said in French.

He heard a reply crackle in his headphones right away. There was not much traffic today. “Bonjour, India Lima Kilo. Taxi using taxiways Bravo and Delta. Hold short of runway zero three, over.”

“Roger, taxiing using Bravo, Delta, hold short, over.” He released the parking brake and edged the throttle forward. 

Holding short of runway 03, as asked, he wiped the sweat off his brow. He’d managed to taxi from the apron to the edge of the runway without crashing into anything. But that was the easy part. 

“India Lima Kilo, you are cleared for takeoff, over.” A different voice, presumably from the Tower, came through his headphones. 

“India Lima Kilo, cleared, over.” He repeated. He pushed the throttle forward slightly and lined up on the runway, stopping as soon as he was straight. He double-checked his flaps and that everything was in order, took a deep breath, and pushed the throttles forward all the way.

The Learjet began rolling and soon got up speed. Even though Silva was alone in the cabin, he found himself saying things out loud, like he would if a copilot was there. “V1.” He said, when the plane had reached the point of no return. 

“Aand… Rotate.” He gently pulled back on the yoke and like a bird taking flight, the Learjet lifted off the ground. Silva smiled. This moment was always particularly magical to him. He reached forward and raised the gear lever. 

“India Lima Kilo, contact departures on 137.8. Have a nice day, over.” The radio crackled.

“Departures on 137.8. Adios!” Silva said, holding back a laugh. He switched over to La Bourget departures. 

“India Lima Kilo checking in, en route to Heathrow, London, over.” He said and waited. 

“India Lima Kilo, good afternoon. Climb to flight level 250 and maintain heading 03 right, over.” 

“Climb to 250, maintain 03 right, over.” Silva repeated and punched in the coordinates to the autopilot. The second most difficult part of flying was over. He got up out of his chair and poured himself a glass of sparkling water. He stood on the threshold of the cockpit and watched as the autopilot gently pushed the plane through the clouds. 

At least, he thought dryly, when he was in the warehouse he could keep an eye on James… But all the way up here at- he squinted to read the dial – 10,000 feet, he had no idea what they were doing to his lover. He sent a quick prayer to whatever deity happened to be listening that they wouldn’t scar him too badly, and put his glass down. Heading to the back of the plane, he opened a cupboard and pulled out the guncase within. Opening it up, he pulled out the AK-47 from the foam and admired it. It was custom made to his specs, and painted a beautiful matte black. He hadn’t got a chance to use it yet, but he sure as hell was going to. He placed the gun carefully down on one of the seats and headed back to the cockpit to check what was happening. 

The plane was climbing smoothly and steadily. He figured he had enough time to get changed.

A few minutes later, in a fresh suit with a black leather trenchcoat thrown over the top, he took a seat in the cockpit, slipped his headphones on and observed. They’d leveled out at 25,000 feet and were heading in the general direction of Belgium. Soon departures would radio him with a new heading, but for now, he let the plane be. 

He settled back and waited for the call while contemplating what he was going to do to the bastards who had hurt James.

Silva flicked the switches to turn off the engines and relaxed. An hour and a half later and he had done it. Years of not flying, and he had managed to land and safely taxi to a parking space, in Heathrow of all places! He ripped the headphones off and got up.

He lovingly put his rifle back into the gun case and gathered a few extra clips. He double checked the cabin and, satisfied, opened the door and walked down the steps. 

He’d radioed ahead and sure enough, as requested, a car was parked a few meters away. Well, not a car. His car. An Audi R8. He was going to rescue the man he loved, and he was going to do it in style, with precision handling.

He placed the gun case on the floor of the passenger seat and sat down in the driver’s seat. The key was already in the fob and the engine was idling. He smiled and fished around in his trench coat for the piece of paper and punched in the address. 

“Please follow the highlighted route, and then the route guidance will start.” The on board computer said smoothly.

“Si, si.” He muttered and put his foot on the accelerator. 

//

Bond choked and spluttered. They finally lifted the wet cloth off his face and he leaned forward and coughed his lungs out. He hadn’t realized what was so awful about waterboarding, but now he knew.

It was like he was in the elevator with Vesper over and over again.

Without warning they yanked him back, slapped the cloth over his mouth and nose and began pouring more water on it. He struggled for breath and every muscle in his body contracted, fighting against the drowning sensation. It went on and on until he was sure he was going to drown until, at the very last moment, they took the cloth away. Again, he leaned forward and coughed, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

“Silva… I’m sorry…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got this far, good on you. Seriously, I doubt anyone will read this chapter.
> 
> Preflight checks: When one walks around the airframe, checks that everything is in order, checks that all the parts that have to move can move and all the parts that don't move don't. Check fuel and oil. A visual inspection.
> 
> Flaps: Part of the wing. You can extend them to make the surface of the wing larger. More surface area = more lift.
> 
> Ailerons: Part of the wing that, along with the rudder, make the plane turn.
> 
> Elevators: Kind of like Ailerons but located on the rear stabilizer (the tail) and control the plane's up and down movement.
> 
> What's with the "India Lima Kilo" bullshit?: This is the NATO Phonetic Alphabet- Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, etc. It's used in aviation around the world. The registration code for Silva's plane is EC-ILK. The EC is Spain's unique code, meaning the plane is of Spanish origin, and the ILK is the registration letters. General aviation use their registration code as their callsign (as opposed to an airline name).
> 
> Hold short?!: Hold short means stop before you go on the runway. 
> 
> V1: The point of no return. Once you have reached this speed, you have to take off, no questions asked. It's too late to abort the take off.
> 
> Rotate: When you rotate, you pull back on the yoke (or stick in most modern planes) to lift the plane off the ground.
> 
> Flight Level/Heading: Flight level 250 means 25,000 feet. Flight level 350 would mean 35,000 feet, etc etc. Heading is simply a compass heading. Heading 180 means to head due south.
> 
> More pictures of Silva's plane can be viewed here: http://www.aviationcorner.net/gallery.asp?pg=1&fp=1&registration=EC-ILK
> 
> This is what Silva's car looks like: http://i.imgur.com/uEPyc.jpg
> 
> If you're interested in listening to live ATC feeds in your country, go here: http://liveatc.net


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, Vesper was standing there in front of him.

_9:34 pm GMT_  
Gritting his teeth, Silva cracked his knuckles. Of course, he was stuck in traffic. He should have expected this. Even though it was 9:30, traffic out of Heathrow was awful. The line of cars was hardly moving at all. 

He flipped the mirror down and looked in it, running a hand over his stubble. He desperately needed to re-bleach his hair, he thought abstractly. 

He reached over and switched on the radio. Heavy metal music blasted through the speakers, temporarily deafening him. “Puta mierda” he yelled, fumbling for the switch. 

Finally hitting the right one, he sat back in his seat and looked at his watch. He’d wasted half an hour here. He put his blinker on and pulled out onto the shoulder. Thankfully, it was clear until the next exit. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, pulling away in a screech of tires, to the alarm of the other motorists.

 

_9:36 pm GMT _  
Without warning, after the two men took the cloth off his face for the umpteenth time, they left the small torture cell, leaving James alone for the first time since he’d been captured.__

__He sat there, his fingers and toes burning, his chest stinging horribly from where they’d put out cigarettes on it, water dripping down his face, and started to cry silently._ _

__He was certain Silva wasn’t going to come. It had been nearly two days without a sign from him. James was utterly alone, defenceless at the hands of his captors. He still had no idea why he was here; the oddest part of the whole thing was they weren’t questioning him. Just horrific, relentless, endless torture._ _

__He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them again, Vesper was standing there in front of him. She was wearing that beautiful red dress and was soaking wet. The dress clung to her pale body, and her hair drooped around her face, dripping on the floor. Bond blinked. She walked forward, looking at him sadly. He was frozen in place, unable to move as the tears rushed down his face._ _

__“Vesper…” He whispered. She stepped close to him and caressed his face. He leaned into her hand, but couldn’t feel her touch; he wanted to feel her so badly._ _

__Bending down, she kissed him. Bond sobbed into her, as he felt nothing but empty air. When she stepped back, he gasped in shock. Her face was melting away in strips, revealing the bone underneath. As more and more skin fell off her, he was faced with a skull on Vesper’s body. He opened his mouth and screamed, long and loud._ _

__

___9:58 pm GMT_  
Silva was speeding, but he hardly cared. Time was ticking away – the longer the torturers went without hearing from their master, the more suspicious they’d get, and the more likely it was that they’d get sick of waiting and kill James. He could not allow that to happen. He swerved in and out of traffic, overtaking cars and trucks at high speed. _ _

__

___10:03 pm GMT_  
One of the two men entered the room, shutting the door carefully behind him. Bond raised his head wearily. The man was smoking a cigarette, almost down to the butt. _ _

__“How does that filter taste?” Bond said, his voice scratchy._ _

__The man ignored him and instead began to walk around the chair in circles. “Bond, do you know how hot a cigarette burns?”_ _

__“I don’t really want to know, to be honest.” He replied dryly._ _

__“A cigarette burns at over 600C. That’s pretty hot, isn’t it?”_ _

__“If you say so.” Bond said, pretending to be nonplussed._ _

__The man sprung forward and jammed the lit end of his cigarette into Bond’s chest. Instinctively Bond raised his hands but was jerked in the wrists by the cuffs. He roared in pain._ _

__Gasping for air, he said, “That was nothing. Felt like 200C.”_ _

__The man spat on him and left._ _

__

___10:15 pm GMT_  
Silva winced as his tires crackled on the gravel. He braked as smoothly as possible, put the parking brake on, and switched the engine off._ _

__He was here._ _

__He sat in the car and listened. No gunfire, and no one had come storming out of the warehouse doors guns blazing, which was a good sign. Although it was unlike Silva to not make an entrance, he had felt that roaring in on a helicopter would be… less than helpful in this situation._ _

__He reached over and pulled the gun case onto his lap, opening it and taking out the gun. It really was a beautiful piece of machinery. He patted around the foam until he found the silencer and screwed it onto the barrel. Now, he was ready._ _

__He opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel as quietly as he could. He had the ability to move like a cat in the night if he wanted to, and no one heard him as he walked across to the warehouse doors, arming and readying his weapon._ _

__He put his hand on the knob and twisted. Unlocked. He snorted. These people really were amateurs. He gave the door a cautious push and light spilled out, illuminating his car behind him._ _

__He raised his gun and stepped inside._ _

__

___10:16 pm GMT_  
Bond wished he had a cyanide capsule. He didn’t know why they didn’t fit the Double-O agents with them any more, but he hadn’t gotten one, and none of the other agents had, either. _ _

__Silva wasn’t coming. He was sure of it._ _

__

___10:17pm GMT_  
The first guard was ridiculously easy. Silva came up behind him and slit his throat. The man didn’t even know what hit him. The people here were so lazy, he thought. Perhaps he could have come in a helicopter. _ _

__

___10:18pm GMT_  
The two men re-entered the room and went immediately over to the table. Bond stared warily. That table meant pain, and pain was never pleasant._ _

__He just wanted it to end. He just wanted to see Vesper, and M, and his parents, and even Raoul again._ _

__

___10:20 pm GMT_  
After having killed a total of 6 men, Silva raised his foot and kicked down a door and was presented with a sight that stopped his heart. _ _

__

___10:20 pm GMT_  
After not being on his feet for so long, Bond could hardly stand. He swayed and tried to stay upright, the knife pressing into his back digging in whenever he moved._ _

__Suddenly the door was kicked open. Bond’s eyes opened wide._ _

__Silva._ _

___10:20 pm GMT_  
It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Silva raised his gun and pointed it at the forehead of the man to the right of Bond. As he pulled the trigger, his lover cried out in pain, a cry so sharp it pierced his soul. He swung to the other man, who had a vindictive smile on his face. With one bullet he was down. _ _

__Silva dropped the gun and caught James as he fell into his arms, and looked down._ _

__A knife was buried in his back, up to the hilt._ _

__His blood ran cold._ _

__

___10:20 pm GMT_  
It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Silva eliminated the man to Bond’s right with a single shot, and was swinging around to do the same to the other man, when he felt a stabbing pain in his back. He stepped forward with the force of the blow and cried out in pain. Silva shot the man who had stabbed him and caught Bond as he fell, just barely managing to hold him upright._ _

__“You made it.” Bond said, his voice scratchy._ _

___10:21 pm GMT_  
Silva chuckled, still in a state of shock. “Of course I did, my Corazon. Did you think I was going to leave you?”_ _

__Bond gasped as Silva’s fingers brushed the knife. “I… I’m dying, Silva. I’m dying.”_ _

__“No, you’re not. Silva said firmly._ _

__He heaved Bond into his arms and turned, leaving the bodies of the torturers on the floor. It was a pity he hadn’t been able to extract revenge, but it was worth it just having Bond in his arms, alive._ _

__Bond coughed and blood splattered onto Silva’s face. Alarmed, he began running towards where he came from._ _

__He couldn’t lose him. Not now, not ever._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly happy with this chapter but I can't put my finger on what it is I'm unhappy about. 
> 
> Also the HMTL is being a fucking asshole, all the timestamps are meant to be in italics, but noOoOoOOOooOOOOoooOooO  
> Enjoy~ :)


	10. Chapter 10

Bond’s eyes fluttered open and he immediately tensed as everything came rushing back to him. The last thing he’d seen was Silva’s worried face hovering above his, in a white room. A hospital…?

He sat up in alarm but to, his relief, found he was in his bed. The movement strained the muscles in his back and he hissed in pain. The noise he’d made had, however, woken Silva, who had been sleeping in the chair beside the bed. 

Bond just stared into his lover’s eyes.

Silva, wary and uncertain of how Bond would react towards him after the torture, got up from the chair and sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly, he moved his hand to caress the Englishman’s cheek and Bond leaned into it, meeting Silva’s hand with his own. The relief in Silva’s eyes was immense.

“How long have I been asleep?” Bond asked, taking Silva’s hand from his face and holding it in both of his. 

“A week, not including the hospital. But I don’t believe you remember that.” Silva said, his eyes steadily on Bond.

“No, I don’t… Your hair… It’s brown.” Bond said, reaching up and running his fingers through it. “Why the change?”

Silva shrugged. “I felt it was time to go back to my roots.”

“It suits you.” Bond smiled and brought Silva’s hand up to his lips. 

Silva growled and Bond shifted, wondering what he’d done wrong. However all was clear when Silva said, “James, behave yourself; you’re making me want to take you right here and now, and I can’t because of your back.”

Bond chuckled and took the end of Silva’s index finger in his mouth and sucked on it gently, eyes meeting Silva’s constantly. Silva sighed. “That’s not fair”, he murmured. 

“Then come here.” Bond said, removing the finger from his mouth.

In a flash, Silva was on top of him and they were kissing. It was intense, but sweet; so much time apart had made each other nearly forget the other’s touch. Bond’s hands went up the back of Silva’s shirt and his fingers brushed scar tissue. He flinched and pulled back.

“What happened, mi corazón? Did I hurt you?” Silva said, instantly all worry. 

Bond shook his head. “No, I’m alright. I just want to feel you.”

Silva knew what he meant and crawled off the smaller man, lying down next to him and draping his leg over him. Bond held Silva close and they fell asleep.

//

Silva was swearing at the kitchen countertop when he heard a noise behind him and spun around. His eyes widened. “Bond, you’re not meant to be up and about!”

Bond ignored him. He could walk perfectly fine. He walked over to the stovetop and switched the gas on with a finger. Silva blushed. 

Bond wrapped his arms around Silva. “I need to tell you something, Raoul.”

Silva tensed in worry. “Yes?”

Blue eyes stared into brown ones. “I love you.”

Silva didn’t even bother to reply. He grasped James’ face and gave him a crushing kiss. Breaking apart he said, breathlessly, “I love you, too, mi corazón.”

Satisfied, James hugged Silva hard. He could hardly believe that he was in his kitchen, with a matching knife wound in his back to the man he had despised 2 months ago… whom he now loved.

He wouldn’t change anything for the world. 

//

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that concludes it! My first ever completed fic, my first ever James Bond fic, my first ever 00silva fic, my first ever well-received fic, my first ever slash fic, my first... You get the picture.
> 
> Your support has been overwhelming. I can't believe it. I love you all.
> 
> And I'm not done! no fucking way. Idk if there will be a sequel to this or an entirely new fic, but it will either be 00silva or Bond/Vesper. So hold in there. Give me a bit of time to recover from this fic and I'll be onto the next one ;)
> 
> <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


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